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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Cliap, Cop3Tiglit ]^o._ 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



36550 



Library of Congress 

Iwo Copies Received 
AUG 20 1900 

Copyright entry 

SECOND COPY. 

Delivered to 

ORDER DIVISION, 

_AIIG ^7 1900-1 



Copyright, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Company. 



68745 



3^ 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Prelude 7 

Voices of the Night. 

Hymn to the Night 15 

A Psalm of Life 17 

The Reaper and the Flowers 19 

The Light of the Stars 21 

Footsteps of Angels 23 

Flowers 25 

The Beleaguered City 28 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 31 

Earlier PoEms. 

An April Day 37 

Autumn 39 

Woods in Winter 41 

Hymn of the Moravian^Nuns of Bethlehem 43 

Sunrise on the Hills 45 

The Spirit of Poetry 47 

Burial of the Minnisink 50 

Translations. 

Coplas de Manrique 55 

The Good Shepherd 77 

To-morrow 78 

The Native Land 79 

3 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The Image of God 80 

The Brook 81 

The Celestial Pilot 8a 

The Terrestrial Paradise 84 

Beatrice 86 

Spring 89 

The Child Asleep 91 

The Grave 93 

King Christian 95 

The Happiest Land 97 

The Wave 99 

The Dead 100 

The Bird and the Ship loi 

Whither? 103 

Beware ! 103 

Song of the Bell 107 

The Castle by the Sea 109 

The Black Knight iii 

Song of the Silent Land 114 

L'Envoi 115 

Ballads and Other Poems. 

Preface 119 

The Skeleton in Armor 132 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 141 

The Luck of Edenhall 145 

The Elected Knight 148 

The Children of the Lord's Supper 151 

Miscellaneous. 

The Village Blacksmith 179 

Endymion 182 

The Two Locks of Hair 184 



CONTENTS. 5 

PAGE. 

It Is Not Always May i86 

The Rainy Day i88 

God's-Acre 189 

To the River Charles 191 

The Goblet of Life 193 

Maidenhood 196 

Excelsior 199 

Blind Bartimeus 201 

Poems on Slavery. 

To William E. Channing 205 

The Slave's Dream 207 

The Good Part, That Shall Not Be Taken Away. 210 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 212 

The Slave Singing at Midnight 214 

The Witness 216 

The Quadroon Girl 218 

The Warning 221 



PRELUDE. 



Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 

And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between. 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 

Alternate come and go ; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above. 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; — 

A slumberous sound, — a sound that brings 
The feelings of a dream, — 

7 / 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

As of innumerable wings, 
As when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 
O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me. 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page. 
Traditions of the saint and sage. 
Tales that have the rime of age, 

And chronicles of Eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 

The Spring, clothed like a bride. 
When nestling buds unfold their wings. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

And bishops* caps have golden rings, 
Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild ; 

It was a sound of joy! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
*'Come, be a child once more!" 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar ; 

Into the blithe and breathing air. 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 



10 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Spread a vapor soft and blue, 
In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower. 
The dreams of youth came back again ; 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain. 

At once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay. 

Ye were so sweet and wild! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
* 'It cannot be! They pass away!' 
Other themes demand thy lay; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

*'The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
And gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise. 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 

*' Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 
Not mountains capped with snow, 

Nor forests sounding like the sea. 

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 

Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 11 

'* There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein 
Sees the heavens all black with sin. 
Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

** Athwart the -swinging branches cast 

Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 

We can return no more ! ' 

*'Look, then, into thine heart, and write! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream! 
All forms of sorrow and delight. 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 
Be these henceforth thy theme. ' ' 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



13 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep tHrough h€r xnarble fialls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes. 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 
15 



16 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this 
prayer ! 
Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most 
fair, 
The best-beloved Night! 



I 






LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. IT 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

Wa -j '■ -^UNG MAN SAID TO 



Tell me not, Jn" mournful numbers, 
'" ife is but an empty dream!" 

1«L. the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
**Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'* 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

2 Longfellow 



n LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living* Present! 

Heart within, and Gjd o'erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footsteps on the sands of time ; 

Footsteps, that perhaps another. 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 
With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing. 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



LONGFELLOW'S FOEMS. 19 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; 

"Have nought but the bearded grain? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to 
me, 

I will give them all back again. ' ' 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled; 
"Dear tokens of the earth are they. 

Where He was once a child. 

"They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear. ' ' 



20 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 

The Reaper came that day; 
*Twas an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven 

But the cold light of stars ; 
And the first watch of night is given 

To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love? 

The star of love and dreams? 
O no! from that blue tent above 

A hero's armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 

O star of strength ! I see thee stand 

And smile upon my pain ; 
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 

And I am strong again. 



22 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Within my breast there is no light, 
But the cold light of stars ; 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the tinconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm. 

As one by one thy hopes depart. 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this. 
And thou shalt know ere long. 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 23 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of Day are numbered, 

And the voices of the Night 
Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 

To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door; 
The beloved, the true-hearted. 

Come to visit me once more ; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the road-side fell and perished. 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore. 

Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 



24 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only, 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 25 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden. 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery. 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of His love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation. 

Written all over this great world of ours; 
Making evident our own creation. 

In these stars of earth, — these golden 
flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 



26 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Of the self-same, universal being, 
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than 
seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self- same powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden com ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing. 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the center of his blazen shield ; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 27 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain- top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like 
wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection. 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 



28 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I have read, in some old marvelous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound. 
The spectral camp was seen. 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace; 

The mist-like banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. - 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 29 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man, 

That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream. 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there, 

In the army of the grave; 
No other challenge breaks the air. 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 



30 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral camp is fled; 

Faith shineth as a morning star, 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 31 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING 
YEAR. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, — sorely! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 
**Caw! caw!" the rooks are calling. 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses. 
Singing, ' ' Pray for this poor soul. 
Pray — pray ! ' ' 

And the hooded clouds, like friars. 
Tell their beads in drops of rain. 

And patter their doleful prayers ; — 
But their prayers are all in vain. 
All in vain ! 



32 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, — a king! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Bids the old man rejoice! 
His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray 

Loveth that ever-soft voice. 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, — 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, — 

**Pray do not mock me so! 
Do not laugh at me!" 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies, 
No mist or stain ! 

Then, too the Old Year dieth. 

And the forests utter a moan, 
Like the voice of one who crieth 

In the wilderness alone, 



*'Vexnot his ghost!" 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 33 

Then comes, with an awful roar, 

Gathering and sounding on, 
The storm- wind from Labrador, 

The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 

Sweep the red leaves away ! 
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 

O Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down-cast^ 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie,eleyson! 
Christe, eleyson! 



3 Longfellow 



EARLIER POEMS. 



35 



[These poems were written for the most 
part during my college life, and all of them 
before the age of nineteen. Some have found 
their way into schools, and seem to be success- 
ful. Others lead a vagabond and precarous 
existence in the corners of newspapers; or have 
changed their names and run away to seek 
their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with 
the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion : 
**I cannot be displeased to see these children 
of mine, which I have neglected, and almost 
exposed, brought from their wanderings in 
lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to 
go forth into the world together in a more de- 
corous garb. "] 



36 



AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright 

forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's 
cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored 

wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves 
along 
The forest openings. 
37 



38 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope 

throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And, when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide, 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows 

throw. 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 39 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the year! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread 

out; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes. 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods. 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate 

wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Witin the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved. 



4a LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a- weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird 

sings. 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

O what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent 

teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
He lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 41 



WOODS IN WINTER/ 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods. 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak. 
The summer vine in beauty clung. 

And summer winds the stillness broke. 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide. 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 
And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene. 
When birds sang out their mellow lay. 

And winds were soft, and woods were green 
And the song ceased not with the day. 



42 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord. 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song; 

I hear it in the opening year, — 
I listen, and it cheers. me long. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 43 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
BETHLEHEM 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl's BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day- 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head ; 
And the censer burning swung, 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The blood-red banner, that with prayer 
Had been consecrated there. 

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the w^hile, 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

"Take thy banner! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale. 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes. 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 



44 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

**Take thy banner! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it ! — till our homes are f ree ! 
Guard it! — God will prosper thee! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

*'Take thy banner! But, when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! — By our holy vow. 
By our prayers and many tears. 
By the mercy that endears. 
Spare him! — he our love hath shared! 
Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared ! 

**Take thy banner! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier. 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee. ' ' 

The warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 45 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's widearch 
Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 
And woods were brightened, and soft gales 
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 
The clouds were far beneath me; — bathed in 

light, 
They gathered mid-way round the wooded 

height. 
And, in their fading glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown. 
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered 

lance. 
And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade, 
Or glistened in the white cascade ; 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 



46 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, — 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 
The woods were bending with a silent reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland 

fills. 
Was ringing to the merry shout, 
That faint and far the glen sent out, 
Where, answering to the sudden shot,, thin 

smoke, 

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle 
broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from 

sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills!— No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 47 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 

That dwell's where'er the gentle south wind 

blows ; 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the 

glade, 
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air. 
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 
O'er- riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
From its full laver, pours the wide cascade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 
Slip down through moss-grown stones with 

endless laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlasting hills. 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 



48 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, 

amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from 

earth, 
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted 

bards 
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun. 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle 

winds, — 
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
Aslant the wooded slop, at evening, goes, — 
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky 

looks in, 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale. 
The distant lake, fountains, — and mighty trees, 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world; and, in these wayward days of 

youth. 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 49 

That dwell in nature, — of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the 

clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing light 
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung. 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 
Is like the summer tresses of the trees. 
When twilight makes them brown, and on her 

cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, — and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird. 
Heard in the still night with its passionate 

cadence. 



4 Longfellow 



50 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beeches swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white 
Around a fair uplifted cone. 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes, 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave. 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 51 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread. 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 



62 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, — and» on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



53 



[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the fol- 
lowing poem, flourished in the last half of the 
fifteenth century. He followed the profession 
of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mari- 
ana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable 
mention of him, as being present at the siege 
of Ucles; and speaks of him as "a youth of esti- 
mable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant 
proofs of his valor. He died young; and was 
thus cut off from long exercising his great vir- 
tues, and exhibiting to the world the light of 
his genius, which was already known to 
fame. " He was mortally wounded in a skirm- 
ish near Canavete, in the year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father 
of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de 
Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and 
song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, 
in the town of Ucles; but, according to the 
poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his 
death that called forth the poem upon 
which rests the literary reputation of the 
younger Manrique. In the language of his his- 
torian, *'Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant 
Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellish- 
ments of genius, and high moral reflections, 
mourned the death of his father as with a fun- 
eral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. 
The poem is a model in its kind. Its concep- 
tion is solemn and beautiful; and, in accord- 
ance with it, the style moves on — calm, digni- 
fied and majestic. ] 



54 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

O let the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on. 
How silently I 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs; 

The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past,- 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps. 
Onward the constant current sweeps. 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again, 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay; 

65 



56 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that's told 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray. 
Thither the brook pursues its way. 
And tinkling rill. 

There all are equal. Side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of songs. 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arivSe, 
The Eternal Truth,— the Good and Wise- 
To Him I cry, 
Who shared on earth our common lot, 




" Whose name is written on the scroll of fame."— Page 68. 

Longfellow's Poems, 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 57 

But the world comprehended not 
His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way 
Which leads no traveler's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place, 
In life we run the onward race, 
And reach the goal ; 
When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wandering: 

thought 
To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 
Up to that better world on high. 
For which we wait. 

Yes, — the glad messenger of love. 
To guide us to our home above. 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears. 



58 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth, 
The shapes we chase, 
Amid a world of treachery! 
They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 
And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, — chances strange, 

Disastrous accidents, and change. 

That come to all ; 

Even in the most exalted state. 

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 

Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow. 
When hoary age approaches slow. 
Ah, where are they? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 

The glorious strength that youth imparts 

In life's first stage; 

These shall become a heavy weight. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 59 

When Time swings wide his outward gate 
To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain. 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and high estate of pride. 

With what untimely speed they glide. 

How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they. 

Of fickle heart 

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round 
And they are gone ' 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 



60 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 
And where are they? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust, — 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb. 

They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task. 
What are they, all. 
But the fleet coursers of the chase 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall? 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed. 
Brook no delay,— but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near. 
We strive to check our mad career, 
3ut strive in vain. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 61 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, — 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power! 
What ardor show. 
To deck the sensual slave of sin. 
Yes leave the freeborn soul within, 
In weeds of woe! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time. 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate. 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 

Who is the champion? who the strong? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 



62 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday. 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan? Where 
Each royal prince and noble heir 
Of Aragon? 

Where are the courtly gallantries? 
The deeds of love and high emprise, 
-In battle done? 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
And nodding plume, — 
What were they but a pageant scene 
What but the garlands, gay and green. 
That deck the tomb? 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 63 

/ 
Where are the high-born dames, and where 

Their gay attire, and jeweled hair. 

And odors sweet? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 

To kneel, and breath love's ardent flame, 

Low at their feet? 

Where is the song of Troubadour? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 

The dancers wore? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 
O, in what winning smiles arrayed. 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But O ! how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to bet way! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 



64 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

The countless gifts, — the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
In rich array, — 

Where shall we seek them now? Alas! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gry, brilliant court had he. 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 

But he was mortal ; and the breath. 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee. 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears! 

Spain's haughty Constable, — the great 
And gallant Master, — cruel fate 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 65 

Stripped him of all. 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride, — 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, 
Ignoble fall! 

The countless treasures of his care, 
Hamlets and villas green and fair, 
His mighty power, — 
What were they all, but grief and shame, 
Tears and broken heart, when came 
The parting hour? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity. 
Might rival kings; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest. 
Their underlings; 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died? 

So many a duke of royal name. 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
And baron brave, 

5 Longfellow 



66 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face. 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed; 
High battlements intrenched around. 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 

And covered trench, secure and deep, — 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee. 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath. 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 67 

Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. ^ 

And he, the good man's shield and shade, 
To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
As Virtue's son, — 
Roderic Manrique, — he whose name 



68 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spam's champion; 

His signal deeds and powers high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, — 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung? 

The name, that dwells on every tongue, 

No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend; how kind lo all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief! 

To foes how stern a foe was he! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief! 

What prudence with the old and wise; 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave. 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 
The rush of Caesar's conquering car 
At battle's call; 
His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 69 

And the indomitable will 
Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness, — his 

A Titus* noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine, 
Firm, gentle, still; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man. 
And generous will ; 

In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high. 

Nor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, — and, in their fall. 

Villa and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 



70 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train, 
The conquered gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 

After high deeds, not left untold. 
In the stern warfare, which of old 
'T was his to share. 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 
And fairer regions, than before. 
His guerdon were. 

These are the records, half-effaced. 

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 

On history's page; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 71 

By his unrivaled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 
He stood, in his high dignity, 
The proudest knight of chivalry, 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his villas and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

By the tried valor of his hand. 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served ; — 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe, 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's crown; 

And done such deeds of valor strong, 
That neither history nor song 



72 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Can count them all ; 
Then, on Ocana's castled rock, 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call, — 

Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armor for the fray, — 
The closing scene. 

"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 

So prodigal of health and life. 

For earthly fame. 

Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 

Loud on the last stern battle-plain 

They call thy name. 

"Think not the struggle that draws near 

Too terrible for man, — nor fear 

To m eet the foe ; 

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve. 

Its life of glorious fame to leave 

On earth below. 

"A life of honor and of worth 
Has no eternity on earth, — 
*Tis but a name; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 73 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which leads 

To want and shame. 

**The eternal life, beyond the sky, 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 

The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 

**But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 

Shall gain it by his book and bell, 

His prayers and tears ; 

And the brave knight, whose arm endures 

Fierce battle, and against the Moors 

His standard rears. 

*'And thou, brave knight, whose hand hast 

poured 
The life-blood of the Pagan horde 
O'er all the land. 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length. 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 

"Cheered onward by his promise sure, 
Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess, 



74 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Depart, — thy hope is certainty, — 
The third — the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess. * ' 

**0 Death, no more, no more delay, 

My spirit longs to flee away, 

And be at rest; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be,- — 

I bow to the divine decree. 

To God's behest. 

**My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient heart 

Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 

Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign will 

That we shall die. 

*'0 thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth. 

*'And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear. 
So patiently; 
By thy redeeming grace alone. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 75 

And not for merits of my own, 
O, pardon me ! ' ' 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind; 
Encircled by his family. 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 

His soul to Him who gave it rose ; 

God lead it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest.* 



* This poem of Manrique is a gjeat favorite in Spain. 
No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commen- 
taries, upon it have been published, no one of which, 
however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the 
Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. 
It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a 
prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

"World! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast. 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

"Our days are covered o'er with gn*icf» 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 



76 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the 
author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle: 

"Thy pilgrimage begins in tears 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

"Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe. 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs." 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 77 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Shepherd! that with thine amorous, sylvan 

song 
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed 

me,— 
That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, 
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so 

long! 
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; 
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt 

be; 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 

Hear, Shepherd! — thou who for thy flock art 

dying. 
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
O, wait! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 
Wait for me ! — Yet why ask it, when I see, 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting 

still for me I 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



TO-MORROW. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 
Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst 

wait, 
YVet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 
O strange delusion! — that I did not greet 
Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how 

lost. 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
*'Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shall 

see 
How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" 
And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, 
*' To-morrow we will open," I replied, 
And when the morrow came I answered still, 

"To-morrow." 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 79 



THE NATIVE LAND. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

Clear, fount of light ! my native land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 
But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 
Beloved country! banished from thy shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 
That, whither love aspires, there shall my 
dwelling be. 



80 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

O Lord ! that seest, from yon starry height, 
Centred in one the future and the past, 
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
The world obscures in me what once was 

bright! 
Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast 

given, 
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; 
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days. 
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 
Celestial King! O let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high. 
As the reflected image in a glass 
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 81 



THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH, 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine leaps wild in thee ! 
Although, where'er thy devious current strays. 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's 

gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles 

count ! 
How, without malice, murmuring glides thy 

current ! 
O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
Thou shun' St the haunts of man, to dwell in 

limpid fount! 



6 Longfellow 



82 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of morning, 
Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 

Appeared to me, — would I again could see it! — 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming. 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equaled, 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my con- 
ductor. 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and underneath, 

Little by little, there came forth another. 

My master yet had uttered not a word, 
While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, 

He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the 
knee! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 83 

Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! 

*'See, how he scorns all human arguments, 

So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 

Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 

*'See, how he holds them, pointed straight to 

heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions. 
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair ! ' ' 

And then, as nearer and more near us came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light. 
So that the water swallowed nought thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 
And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 

**In exitu Israel out of Egypt!" 

Thus sang they all together in one voice, 

With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



84 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green. 
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, 
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed 
fragrance. 

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead. 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward towards that 

side 
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 

Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 85 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, 

Even as from branch to branch it gathering 

swells, 
Through the pine forests on the shore of 

Chiassi, 
When ui5^olus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Already my slow steps had led me on 
Into the ancient wood so far, that I 
Could see no more the place where I had 
entered. 

And lo ! my farther course cut off a river, 
Which, tov/ards the left hand, with its little 

waves. 
Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. 

All waters that on earth most limpid are 
Would seem to have within themselves some 

mixture. 
Compared with that, which nothing doth con- 
ceal, 

Although it moves on with a brown, brown 

current. 
Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 



86 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



BEATRICE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 

Even as the Blessed, in the new covenant, 
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his 

grave, 
Wearing again the garments of the flesh. 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 

Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 

They all were saying, Benedictus qui venis,'* 
And scattering flowers above and round about, 
'"''Manibus o date lilia plenis.'^ 

I once beheld, at the approach of day, 
The orient sky all stained with roseate hues 
And the other heaven with light serene 
adorned, 

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, 
So that, by temperate influence of vapors. 
The eye sustained his aspect for long while ; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 87 

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 
Which from those hands angelic were thrown 

up, 
And down descended inside and without, 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, 
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 
Vested in colors of the living flame. 



Even as the snow, among the living rafters 

Upon the back of Italy, congeals. 

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds. 

And then dissolving, filters through itself, 
When'er the land, that loses shadow breathes. 
Like as a taper melts before a fire, 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear. 
Before the song of those who chime forever 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ; 

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had they said, 
"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume 
him?" 

The ice, that was about my heart congealed, 
To air and water changed, and in my anguish. 



88 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Through lips and eyes came gushing from my 
breast. 



Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 
Forced such a feeble "Yes!'* out of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis dis- 
charged. 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark; 

So I gave way under this heavy burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its pas- 
sage. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 89 



SPRING. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D' ORLEANS, XV. CENTURY. 

Gentle Spring! — in sunshine clad, 
Well dost thou thy power display! 

For winter maketh the light heart sad, 
And thou, — thou makest the sad heart gay. 

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the 
rain; 

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old. 
Their beards of icicles and snow ; 

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold. 
We must cower over the embers low ; 

And, snugly housed from the wind and weather. 

Mope like birds that are changing feather. 

But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 



90 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
And the earth looks bright and Winter surly, 
Who has toiled for nought both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-bom yeai; 

When thy merry step draws near. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 91 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have 
pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelids on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — 
'Tis sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee ! 

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; 
His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of 
harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold 
arm? 

Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 
Awake, and chase this fatal thought! — 
Unclose 



92 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Thine eye but for one moment on the light! 
Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error! — he but slept, — I breathe again ; — 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep 
beguile ! 

O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain. 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE GRAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wert born, 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 
Where thou shall be ; 
Now I shalt measure thee. 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low; 
When thou art therein. 
The heel- ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 



94 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house. 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends; 
Thou hast no friend, 
Who will come to thee. 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee 
And descend after thee. 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 95 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. FROM THE DANISH OF 
JOHANNES EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the loft mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
*'Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 
The stroke?" 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore. 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar 

"Now is the hour!" 
"Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly!" 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power?" 

North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent 
Thy murky sky! 



96 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 
Terror and Death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky! 
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul. 

And fly! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite, 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark rolling- wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave !* 

♦Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and 
Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great 
prowess received the popular title of Tordenskiold, or 
Thunders-shield. In childhood he was a tailor's ap- 
prentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of 
twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 97 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. FROM THE GERMAN. 

There sat one day in quiet, 

By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
Four hale and hearty fellows, 

And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand, 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

**Long live the Swabian land! 

**The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there. '* 

*'Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing, — 
And dashed his beard with wine ; 

7 Longfellow 



98 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

**I had rather live in Lapland, 
Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

**The goodliest land on all the earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand!" 

*'Hold your tongues! both Swabian and 
Saxon!" 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
*'Ii there's a heaven upon this earth. 

In Bohemia it lies. 

*' There the tailor blows the flute. 

And the cobbler blows the horn. 
And the miner blows the bugle. 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 

4: « « # 

And then the landlord's daughter 

Up to heaven raised her hand. 
And said, "Ye may no more contend, — 

There lies the happiest land!" 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 99 



• THE WAVE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 

*' Whither, thou turbid wave? 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou?" 

''I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly- 
To the Sea's immensity, 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 



100 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE DEAD. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK. 

How they so softly rest, 

All, all the holy dead, 

L^nto whose holy dwelling-place 

Now doth my soul draw near! 

How they so softly rest, 

All in their silent graves, 

Deep to corruption 

Slowly down-sinking! 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still! 
And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies! 
And, by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed. 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they glnmber! - 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 101 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

**The rivers rush into the sea, 

By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 

Their noisy trumpets blow. 

"The clouds are passing far and high, 

We little birds in them play ; 
And everything, that can sing and fly, 

Goes with us, and far away. 

**I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or 
whence 

With thy fluttering golden band?" — 
**I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea 

I haste from the narrow land. 

**Full and swollen is every sail; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 

And it will not let me stand still. 

**And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 
Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 



102 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

For full to sinking is my house 
With merry companions all. ' ' — 

*'I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For 'the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

*'High over the sails, high over the mast, 

Who shall gainsay these joys? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice, 

**Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them, every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day, 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

"Thus do I sing my weary song. 

Wherever the four winds blow ; 
And this same song, my whole life long. 

Neither Poet not Printer may know.'* 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 103 



WHITHER? 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

I heard a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 

But I must hasten downward, 
All witlii ix^y pilgrim-st^ve ; 

Downward, and ever farther. 
And ever the brook beside ; 

And ever fresher niurmured, 
And ever <2le,^rejr, the t^^e, 

Is this the way I was going? 

Whither, O bropklet, say! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured niy s^e^s^^ aw^y. 

What do I say of a murmur? 
That can no MUTmUV J?e ; 



104 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

'Tis the water-nymphs, that are singing 
Their roundelays tinder me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 105 



BEWARE! 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

I know a maiden fair to see, 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down. 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 

And she has hair of a golden hue. 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow, 
Take care ! 



J06 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

.She jknows how miich it is best to show, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not^ 
;Bhe Is fooling thi^^j 

She give:S th_e^ .^ garl^n4 woven fair, 

Take eare;! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware! Bewar^j 

Trust her not, 
5he is fooling ^h^i 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 107 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell, thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell! thou soundest merrily; 
Tellest thou at evening 

Bed-time draweth nigh! 
Bell! thou soundest mournfully; 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say! how canst thou mourn? 
How canst thou rejoice? 

Thou art but metal dull! 
And yet all our sorrowings. 
And all our rejoicings. 

Thou dost feel them all ! 



108 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

God hath wonders many, 
Which he cannot fathom ! 

Placed within thy form! 
When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it, 

Trembling in the storm ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 109 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

*'Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That Castle by the Sea? 
Golden and red above it 

The clouds float gorgeously. 

**And fain it would stoop downward, 

To the mirrored wave below; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow." 

**Well have I seen that castle, 

That castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly. ' ' 

**The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime? 
Didst thou hear, from those loftly chambers 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?" 

*'The winds and the waves of ocean. 
They rested quietly. 



110 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
And tears came to mine eye." 

"And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride? 

And the wave of their crimson mantles? 
And the golden crown of pride? 

"Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there? 
Resplendent as the morning sun. 

Beaming with golden hair?" 

"Well saw I the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 

No maiden was by their side!" 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. Ill 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all sadness. 

Thus began the King and spake : 
*'So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break. 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly. 
Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

From balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears. 
Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight, 

*'Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, 
say!" 

*' Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear; 

I'm a Prince of mighty sway!" 



112 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of Heaven grew black with mists 

And the castle 'gan to rock. 
At the first blow, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow. 

Hardly rises from the shock. 

Pipe and viol call the dances. 

Torch-light through the high halls glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark. 
Danced a measure weird and dark. 

Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame. 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught. 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a breaker took ; 




Hast thou. seen that lordly castle?"— Page 109. 

Longfellow's Poems. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 113 

*' Golden wine will make you whole!" 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank ; 

**0 that draught was very cool!" 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly. 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

*'Woe! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father!** 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast-, 

"Roses in the spring I gather!" 



8 Longfellow 



114 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah! who shall lead us thither? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, O thither, 

Into the Silent Land? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ' Tender morning- visions 

Of beauteous souls! 

The Future's pledge and band! 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land! 

O Land! O Land! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted. 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 115 



L'ENVOI. 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the Evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose. 

$ Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear. 

And say to them, '*Be of good cheer!" 



Ye sounds, so low and calm, 
That in the groves of balm 
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 



Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps! 



BALLADS 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



117 



PREFACE. 

There is one poem in this volume, in refer- 
ence to which a few introductory remarks may 
be useful. It is '*The Children of the Lord's 
Supper," from the Swedish of Bishop Tegner; 
a poem which enjoys no inconsiderable reputa- 
tion in the North of Europe, and for its beauty 
and simplicity merits the attention of English 
readers. It is an Idyl, descriptive of scenes in 
a Swedish village; and belongs to the same 
class of poems as the *'Luise" of Voss and the 
* ' Hermann und Dorothea" of Goethe. But the 
Swedish Poet has been guided by a surer taste 
than his German predecessors. His tone is 
pure and elevated ; and he rarely, if ever, mis- 
takes what is trivial for what is simple. 

There is something patriarchal still linger- 
ing about rural life in Sweden, which renders 
it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval sim- 
plicity reigns over that Northern land, — 
almost primeval solitude and stillness. You 
pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by 
magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland 
landscape. Around you are forests of fir. 

119 



120 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Overhead hang- the long, fan-like branches, 
trailing with moss, and heavy with red and 
blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow 
leaves; and the air is warm and balmy. On 
a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream ; 
and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny 
land of farms. Wooden fences divide the 
adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, 
which are opened by troops of children. The 
peasants take off their hats as you pass ; you 
sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you." The 
houses in the villages and smaller towns are 
all built of hewn timber, and for the most part 
painted red. The floors of the taverns are 
strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. 
In many villages there are no taverns, and the 
peasants take turns in receiving travelers. 
The thrifty housewife shows you into the best 
chamber, the walls of which are hung round 
with rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings 
you her heavy silver spoons, — an heirloom, — 
to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You 
have oaten cakes baked some months be- 
fore; or bread with anise-seed and coriander 
in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought 
his horses from the plough, and harnessed 
them to your carriage. Solitary travelers 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 121 

come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. 
Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and 
hanging around their necks in front, a leather 
wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the 
great bank-notes of the country, as large as 
your two hands. You meet, also, groups of 
Dalekarlian peasant women, traveling home- 
ward or townward in pursuit of work. They 
walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their 
shoes, which have high heels under the hol- 
low of the foot, and soles of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, 
standing by the road-side, each in its own little 
garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register 
great events are doubtless recorded. Some old 
king was chritsened or buried in that church ; 
and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows 
you the baptismal font, or the coffin. In the 
churchyard are a few flowers, and much green 
grass; and daily the shadow of the church 
spire, with its long tapering fingers counts the 
tombs, repesenting a dial-plate of human life, 
on which the hours and minutes are the graves 
of men. The stones are flat, and large, and 
low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old 
houses. On some are armorial bearings; on 
others only the initials of the poor tenants, 
with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. 



122 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

They all sleep with their heads to the west- 
ward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand 
when he died ; and in his coffin were placed his 
little heart-treasures, and a piece of money for 
his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into 
the world were carried in the arms of gray- 
haired old men to the only cradle they ever 
slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother 
were laid the little garments of the child that 
lived and died in her bosom. And over this 
scene the village pastor looks from his window 
in the stillness of midnight, and says in his 
heart, "How quietly they rest, all the de- 
parted!" 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, 
fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured 
by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to 
keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the 
peasants sit on the church steps and con their 
psalm-books. Others are coming down the 
road with their beloved pastor, who talks to 
them of holy things from beneath his broad- 
brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and har- 
vests, and of the parable of the sower, that 
went forth to sow. He leads them to the Good 
Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the 
spirit-land: He is their patriarch, and, like 
Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 123 

has no other throne than the church pulpit. 
The women carry psalm-books in their hands, 
wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen de- 
voutly to the good man's words. But the 
young men, like Gallio, care for none of these 
things. They are busy counting the plaits in 
the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number 
being an indication of the wearer's wealth. 
It may end in a wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wedding 
in Sweden. It shall be in summer time, that 
there may be flowers, and in a southern prov- 
ince, that the bride may be fair. The early 
song of the lark and of chanticleer are mingling 
in the clear morning air, and the sun, the 
heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, arises 
in the east, just as our earthly bridegroom with 
yellow hair arises in the south. In the yard, 
there is a sound of voices and trampling of 
hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. 
The steed that is to bear the bridegroom has a 
bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a gar- 
land of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends 
from the neighboring farms come riding in^ 
their blue coats streaming to the wind ; and 
finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in 
his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the 
breast of his black jacket, comes forth from 



124 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

his chamber ; and then to horse and away, to- 
wards the village where the bride already sits 
and waits. 

Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by 
some half-dozen village musicians. Next 
comes the bridegroom between his two grooms- 
men, and then forty or fifty friends and wed- 
ding guests, half of them perhaps with pistols 
and guns in their hands. A kind of baggage- 
wagon brings up the rear, laden with food and 
drink for these merry pilgrims. At the en- 
trance of every village stands a triumphal 
arch, adorned with flowers and ribbons and 
evergreens; and as they pass beneath it the 
wedding guests fire a salute, and the whole 
procession stops. And straight from every 
pocket flies a black-jack, filled with punch or 
brandy. It is passed from hand to hand among 
the crowd; provisions are brought from the 
wagon, and after eating and drinking and hur- 
rahing, the procession moves forward again, 
and at length draws near the house of the 
bride. Four heralds ride forward to an- 
nounce that a knight and his attendants are in 
the neighboring forest, and pray for hospital- 
ity. "How many are you?" asks the bride's 
, father. *' At least three hundred," is the an- 
swer; and to this the host replies, "Yes; were 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 125 

you seven times as many, you should all be 
welcome; and in token thereof receive this 
cup. ' * Whereupon each herald receives a can 
of ale; and soon after the whole jovial com- 
pany comes storming into the farmer's yard, 
and riding round the May- pole, which stands 
in the centre, alights amid a grand salute and 
flourish of mUsic. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon 
her head and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin 
Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed 
in a red bodice and kirtle, with loose linen 
sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her 
waist; and around her neck strings of golden 
beads, and a golden chain. On the crown 
rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it an- 
other of cypress. Loose over her shoulders 
falls her flaxen hair; and her blue innocent 
eyes are fixed upon the ground. O thou good 
soul! thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart! 
Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou 
wearest are not thine. They have been hired 
for this great day. Yet art thou rich ; rich in 
health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, 
fervent love. The blessing of heaven be upon 
thee! So thinks the parish priest, as he joins 
together the hands of bride and bridegroom, 
saying in deep, solemn tones, — "I give thee in 



126 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

marriag-e this damsel, to be thy wedded wife in 
all honor, and to share the half of thy bed, thy 
lock and key, and every third penny which yon 
two may possess, or may inherit, and all the 
rights which Upland's laws provide, and the 
holy king Erik gave. ' ' 

The dinner is now served, and the bride 
sits between the bridegroom and the priest. 
The Spokesman delivers an oration after the 
ancient custom of his fathers. He interlards 
it well with quotations from the Bible; and 
invites the Savior to be present at this mar- 
riage feast, as he was at the marriage feast in 
Cana of Galilee. The table is not sparingly 
set forth. Each makes a long arm, and the 
feast goes cheerily on. Punch and brandy 
pass round between the courses, and here and 
there a pipe is smoked, while waiting for the 
next dish. They sit long at table ; but, as all 
things must have an end, so must a Swedish 
dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off 
by the bride and the priest, who perform a 
solemn minuet together. Not till after mid- 
night comes the Last Dance. The girls form 
a ring around the bride, to keep her from the 
hands of the married women, who endeavor to 
break through the magic circle, and seize their 
new sister. After long struggling they sue- 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 127 

ceed ; and the crown is taken from her head 
and the jewels from her neck, and her bodice 
is unlaced and her kirtle taken off; and like a 
vestal virgin clad all in white she goes, but it 
is to her marriage chamber, not to her grave ; 
and the wedding guests follow her with lighted 
candles in their hands. And this is a village 
bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing 
seasons of the Northern clime. There is no 
long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and 
blossom one by one ; — no long and lingering 
autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves 
and the glow of Indian summers. But winter 
and summer are wonderful, and pass into each 
other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in 
the corn, when winter from the folds of trail- 
ing clouds sows broadcast over the land snow, 
icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane 
apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above 
the horizon or does not rise at all. The moon 
and the stars shine through the day; only, at 
noon, they are pale and wan, and in the south- 
ern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns 
along the horizon, and then goes out. And 
pleasantly under the silver moon, and under 
the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel-shoes of 



128 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and 
the sound of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to 
burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams playing in 
the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crim- 
son glow tinges the heavens. There is a blsuh 
on the cheek of night. The colors come and 
go; and change from crimson to gold, from 
gold to crimson. The snow is stained with 
rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, east and 
west, flames a fiery sword; and a broad band 
passes athwart the heavens, like a summer sun- 
set. Soft purple clouds come sailing over the 
sky, and through their vapory folds the wink- 
ing stars shine white as silver. With such 
pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, 
though only a single star heralded the first 
Christmas. And in memory of that day the 
Swedish peasants dance on straw; and the 
peasant girls throw straws at the timbered roof 
of the hall, and for every one that sticks in a 
crack shall a groomsman come to their wed- 
ding. Merry Christmas, indeed! For pious 
souls there shall be church songs and sermons, 
but for Swedish peasants, brandy and nut 
brown ale in wooden bowls; and the great 
Yule-cake crowned with a cheese, and gar- 
landed with apples, and upholding a three- 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 129 

armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. 
They may tell tales, too, of Jons Lundsbracka, 
and Lunkenfus, and the great Riddar Finke of 
Pingsdaga.* 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full of 
blossoms and the song of nightingales, is 
come! Saint John has taken the flowers and 
festival of heathen Balder ; and in every vil- 
lage there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with 
wreaths and roses and ribbons streaming in 
the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top to 
tell the village whence the wind cometh and 
whither it goeth. The sun does not set till 
ten o'clock at night; and the children are at 
play in the streets an hour later. The win- 
dows and doors are all open, and you may sit 
and read till midnight without a candle. O 
how beautiful is the summer night, which is 
not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, 
descending upon earth with dews, and 
shadows, and refreshing coolness! How 
beautiful the long, mild twilight, which like a 
silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday! 
How beautiful the silent hour, when Morning 
and Evening thus sit together, hand in hand, 
beneath the starless sky of midnight! From 
the church-tower in the public square the bell 

* Titles of Swedish popular tales. 
9 Longfellow 



130 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime ; and 
the watchman, whose watch-tower is the bel- 
fry, blows a blast in his horn, for each stroke 
of the hammer and four times, to the four cor- 
ners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he 

chants, — 

"Ho! watchman, ho! 
Twelve is the clock ! 
God keep our town 
From fire and brand 
And hostile hand ! 
Twelve is the clock!" 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can 
see the sun all night long ; and farther north 
the priest stands at his door in the warm mid- 
night, and lights his pipe with a common 
burning glass. 

I trust that these remarks will not be 
deemed irrelevant to the poem, but will lead 
to a clearer understanding of it. The transla- 
tion is literal, perhaps to a fault. In no in- 
stance have I done the author a wrong, by 
introducing into his work any supposed im- 
provements or embellishments of my own. I 
have preserved even the measure ; that inexor- 
able hexameter, in which, it must be con- 
fessed, the motions of the English Muse are 
not unlike those of a prisoner dancing to the 
music of his chains ; and perhaps, as Dr. John- 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 131 

son said of the dancing dog, *'the wonder is 
not that she should do it so well, but that she 
should do it at all. ' * 

Esaias Tegner, the author of this poem, was 
born in the parish of By in Warmland, in the 
year 1782. In 1799 he entered the University 
of Lund, as a student; and in 18 12 was ap- 
pointed Professor of Greek in that institution. 
In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexio, which 
office he still holds. He stands first among all 
the poets of Sweden, living or dead. His prin- 
cipal work is Frithiofs Saga; one of the most 
remarkable poems of the age. This modern 
Scald has written his name in immortal runes. 
He is the glory and boast of Sweden; a 
prophet honored in his own country, and add- 
ing one more to the list of great names, that 
adorn her history. 



132 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

[The following Ballad was suggested to me 
while riding on the seashore at Newport. A 
year or two previous a skeleton had been dug 
up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded 
armor; and the idea occurred to me of connect- 
ing it with the Round Tower at Newport, 
generally known hitherto as the Old Wind Mill, 
though now claimed by the Danes as a work of 
their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the 
"Memoires de la Societe Royale des Anti- 
quaries du Nord," for 1838-1839, says: 

"There is no mistaking in this instance the 
style in which the more ancient stone edifices 
of the North were constructed, the style which 
belongs to the Roman or Ante- Gothic architec- 
ture, and which, especially, after the time of 
Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over 
the whole of the West and the North of 
Europe, where it continued to predominate 
until the close of the 12th century; that style, 
which some authors have, from one of its most 
striking characteristics, called the round arch 
style, the same which in England is denomi- 
nated Saxon and sometimes Norman architec- 
ture. 

*'On the ancient structure in Newport there 
are no ornaments remaining, which might 
possibly have served to guide us in assigning 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 133 

the probable date of its erection. That no ves- 
tige whatever is found of the pointed arch nor 
any approximation to it, is indicative of an 
earlier rather than of a later period. From 
such characteristics as remain, however, we 
can scarcely form any other inference than one, 
in which I am persuaded that all, who are 
familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will 
concur, that this building was erected at a 
period decidedly not later than the 12th cen- 
tury. This remark applies, of course, to the 
original building only, and not to the altera- 
tions that it subsequently received ; for there 
are several such alterations in the upper part 
of the building which cannot be mistaken, and 
which were most likely occasioned by its being 
adapted in modern times to various uses, for 
example as the substructure of a wind-mill, 
and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same 
times may be referred the windows, the fire- 
place, and the apertures made above the 
columns. That this building could not have 
been erected for a wind-mill, is what an archi- 
tect will easily discern. ' * 

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. 
It is sufficiently well established for the pur- 
pose of a ballad; though doubtless many an 
honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his 
days within sight of the Round Tower, will be 
ready to exclaim with Sancho ; "God bless me ! 
did I not warn you to have a care of what you 
were doing, for that it was nothing but a wind- 
mill; and nobody could mistake it, but one 
who had the like in his head."] 



134 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 
Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fieshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
Why dost thou haunt me?" 

TE^h, from those cavernous eyes 
PaTe flashes^ seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; ' 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

**I was a Viking old! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
No Skald in song has told. 
No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse! 
For this I sought thee. 

*'Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 135 

I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-f alcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

*'Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf 's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

**But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led; 
Many the souls that sped. 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

*'Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing. 



136 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

A.S we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 
Filled to o'erflowing. 

**Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

*'I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half-afraid. 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

** Bright in her father's hall, 
Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chaunting his glory; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 1S7 

Mute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story, 

'*While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

**She was a Prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight. 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded? 

** Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 



138 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

'*Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 
Laugh as he hailed us. 

**And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water! 

**As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden. 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

** Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 139 

Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to lee-ward; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking sea- ward. 

'There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden's tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 
On such another! 

'Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful! 
In the vast forest here. 
Clad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful! 

'Thus, seamed with man)?- scars. 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended ! 



140 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!"* 
— Thus the tale ended. 

* In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation 
when drinking a health, I have slightly changed the 
orthography of the word, in order to preserve the cor- 
rect pronunciation. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 141 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

/_ _ y _ / _ 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day. 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

With his pipe in his mouth, 
And watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
**I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see!" 
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 



14-2 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain, 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted 
steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter^ 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, 

That ever wind did blow. * ' 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar. 

And bound her to the mast.. 

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be?" 
** 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" 

And he steered for the open sea. 

**0 father! I hear the sound of guns, 
O say, what may it be?" 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 143 

**Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea ! ' ' 

*0 father! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be?" 
But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming 
snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the 
wave. 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe, 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 



144 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank 
Ho I ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At day break, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea weed 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 
Christ save us all from a death lie this. 

On the reef of Norman's woe! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 145 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

[The tradition, upon which this ballad is founded, 
and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in 
England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Chris- 
topher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; 
and is not so entirely shattered, as the ballad leaves it] 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 

Bids sound the festal trumpet's call: 

He rises at the banquet board, 

And cries, 'mid the drunken revelers all, 

*'Now, bring me the Luck of Edenhall!" 

The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal. 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal!" 

The gray-beard with trembling hand obeys 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

10 Longfellow 



146 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light : 
*'This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain Sprite ; 
She wrote in it: If this glass doth fall 
Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! 

" 'Twas right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall! 
Deep draughts drink we right willingly; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!" 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall. 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

*'For its keeper takes a race of might. 

The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 

It has lasted longer than is right; 

Kling! klang! — with a harder blow than all 

Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!" 

* 

As the goblet ringing flies apart. 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild flames start ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all, 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 147 

In Storms of foe, with fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall,' 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall. 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
The gray-beard in the desert hall. 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

"The stone wall,'* saith he, "doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall!" 



148 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad 
is from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Mid- 
dle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of 
Christianity in the North, and to the institution of 
Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be 
Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the 
original have been carefully preserved in the trans- 
lation.] 

Sir Oliif he ridetli over the plain, 

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 
But never, ah, never can meet with the man 

A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hill-side 

A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 149 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest; 
And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 

It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm 

A wreath of ruddy gold; 
And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest v/as fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven down ; 

"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, 
"So v.dll I yield me unto thee." 

"I am not Christ the Great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me bedisrht. " 



•^ta' 



"Art thou a Knight elected, 

And have three Maidens thee bedight 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day. 

For all the Maidens' honor!" 



150 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

The first tilt they together rode, 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode, 
They proved their manhood best. 

The third tilt they together rode, 
Neither of them would yield ; 

The fourth tilt they together rode, 
They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 151 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S 
SUPPER. 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNOR. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The 

church of the village 
Stood gleaming white in the morning's sheen. 

On the spire of the belfry. 
Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly 

flames of the Spring- sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by 

Apostles aforetime. 
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with 

her cap crowned with roses. 
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and 

the wind and the brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace! 

With lips rosy-tinted 
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry 

on balancing branches 
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn 

to the Highest. 
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned 

like a leaf- woven arbor 



1£2 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon 

each cross of iron 
Hung was a sweet-scented garland, new twined 

by the hands of affection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a fountain among 

the departed 
(There full a hundred years had it stood), was 

embellished with blossoms. 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his 

kith and the hamlet. 
Who on his birthday is crowned by children 

and children's children, 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with 

pencil of iron 
Marked on the table of stone, and measured 

the swift-changing moment, 
While all around at his feet, an eternity slum- 
bered in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this 

was the season 
In which the young, their parent's hope, and 

the loved-ones of heaven. 
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows 

of their baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and 

cleaned, and the dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the 

oil-painted benches. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 153 

There stood the church like a garden; the 

Feast of the Leafy Pavilions* 
Saw we in living presentment. From noble 

arms on the church wall 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preach- 
er's pulpit of oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod 

before Aaron. 
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, 

and the dove, washed with silver, 
Under its canopy fastened, a necklace had on 

of wind-flowers. 
But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece 

painted by Horberg,f 
Crept a garland gigantic; and bright -curling 

tresses of angels 
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, out of the 

shadowy leaf-work. 
Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, 

blinked from the ceiling. 
And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost 

set in the sockets. 
Loud rang the bells already; the thronging 

crowd was assembled 

* The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish Loikyd- 
dohogtiden, the Leaf-huts' -high-tide. 

f The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known 
chiefly by his altar-pieces in the village churches. 



154 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy 

preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones 

from the organ, 
Hover like voices from God. aloft like invisible 

spirits. 
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off from 

him his mantle. 
Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; 

and with one voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an an- 
them immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin,* of David's harp in the 

North-land 
Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on 

its powerful pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to 

heaven, 
And every face did shine like the Holy One's . 

face upon Tabor. 
Lo! there entered then into the church the 

Reverend Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a 

christianly plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man 

of seventy winters. 

* A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is par- 
ticularly remarkable for the beauty and sublimity of his 
psalms. 



LONGFELLOW'SPOEMS. 155 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the her- 
alding angel 

Walked he among the crowds, but still a con-* 
templative grandeur 

Lay on his forehead as clear, as on a moss- 
covered grave-stone a sunbeam. 

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that 
faintly 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the 
day of creation) 

Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines 
Saint John when in Patmos ; — 

Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so 
seemed then the old man ; 

Such was the glance of his eye, and such were 
his tresses of silver. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that 
were numbered. 

But with a cordial look, to the right and the 
left hand, the old man 

Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the 
innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the 
Christian service, 

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent dis- 
course from the old man. 

Many a moving word and warning, that out 
of the heart came 



156 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna 

on those in the desert. 
Afterwards, when all was finished, the Teacher 

re-entered the chancel, 
Followed therein by the young. On the right 

hand the boys had their places. 
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and 

chekes rosy-blooming. 
But on the left-hand of these, there stood the 

tremulous lilies, 
Tinofedwith the blushinof licrht of the morninof, 

the diffident maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes 

cast down on the pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the cate- 
chism. In the beginning 
Answered the children with troubled and fal- 
tering voice, but the old man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, 

and the doctrines eternal 
Flowed like the waters of fountains, so clear 

from lips unpolluted. 
Whene'er the answer was closed, and as oft as 

they named the Redeemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens 

all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of 

light there among them, 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 157 

And to the children explained he the holy, the 

highest, in few words. 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity 

always is simple, 
Both in sermon and song a child can seize on 

its meaning. 
Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded 

when Spring- tide approaches. 
Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the 

radiant sunshine, 
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the 

perfected blossom 
Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its 

crown in the breezes, 
So was unfolded here the Christian lore of sal- 
vation, 
Line by line from the soul of childhood. The 

fathers and mothers 
Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at 

each well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar, — and 
straightway transfigured 

(So did it seem unto me) was then the affec- 
tionate Teacher. 

Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as 
Death and as Judgment 

Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul- 
searcher, earthward descending, 



158 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to 

him were transparent 
Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the 

thunder afar off. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he 

spake and he questioned. 

"This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith 

the Apostles delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I bap- 
tized you, while still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the 

portals of heaven. 
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church 

in its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light 

in its radiant splendor 
Rains from the heaven downward ; — ;to-day on 

the threshold of childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and 

make your election. 
For she knows nought of compulsion, only 

conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point 

of existence. 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation 

departeth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink 

ye, before ye make answer ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 159 

Think not* O think not with guile to deceive 

the questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests 

upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey; the 

multitude hears you, 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear 

upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the 

Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels 

in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire, upon 

tablets eternal. 
Thus then, — believe ye in God, in the Father 

who this world created? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit 

where both are united? 
Will ye promise me here (a holy promise!), to 

cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every 

man as a brother? 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith 

by your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to for- 
give, and to suffer. 
Be what it may your condition, and walk be- 
fore God in uprightness? 



160 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Will ye promise me this before God and man?'* — • 
With a clear voice 

Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with 
lips softly breathing 

Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved 
from the brow of the Teacher 

Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake 
on in accents more gentle, 

Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Baby- 
lon's rivers. 

"Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heir- 
dom of heaven be ye welcome ! 

Children no more from this day, but by coven- 
ant brothers and sisters ! 

Yet, — for what reason not children? Of such 
is the kingdom of heaven. 

Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in 
heaven one father. 

Ruling them as his own household, — forgiving 
in turn and chastising, 

That is of human life a picture, as Scripture 
has taught us. 

Blessed are the pure before God! Upon 
purity and upon virtue 

Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from 
on high is descended. 

Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the 
sum of the doctrine,. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 161 

Which the Godlike delivered, and on the cross 

suffered and died for. 
O! as ye wander this day from childhood's 

sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in 

Age's chill valley, 
O! how soon will ye come, — too soon! — and 

long to turn backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, 

where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, 

clad like a mother, 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart 

was forgiven, 
Life was a play and your hands grasped after 

the roses of heaven ! 
Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father 

eternal 
Gave to me gladness and care ; but the love- 
liest hours of existence, 
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I 

have instantly known them, 
Known them all, all again;— they were my 

childhood's acquaintance. 
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in 

the paths of existence. 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and 

Innocence, bride of man's childhood. 

11 Longfellow 



162 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the 
world of the blessed, 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roar- 
ing billows 

Swings she in safety, she heeded them not, in 
the ship she was sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of 
men ; in the desert 

Angels descend and minister unto her; she 
herself knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows 
faithful and humble. 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; I do 
not reject her. 

For she cometh from God, and she holdeth the 
keys of the heavers. — 

Prayer is Innocence' friend; and willingly 
flieth incessant 

'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon 
of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an ex- 
ile, the Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles 
like flames ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his father's mani- 
fold mansions, 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blos- 
somed more freshly the flowers, 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 163 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played 

with the winged angels. 
Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; 

and homesick for heaven 
Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit's 

longings are worship; 
Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and 

its tongue is entreaty. 
Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descend- 

eth upon us, 
Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the 

earth, in the grave-yard, — 
Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sor- 
rowing children 
Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and 

helps and consoles them. 
Yet it is better to pray when all things are 

prosperous with us. 
Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful 

Fortune 
Kneels down before the Eternal's throne; and, 

with hands interfolded. 
Praises thankful and moved the only Giver of 

blessings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that 

comes not from Heaven? 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it 

has not received? 



164 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The 

seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory 

of him who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when 

the world he created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament 

uttereth his glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall down- 
ward from heaven. 
Downward like withered leaves; at the last 

stroke of midnight, millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees 

them, but counts them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence? The wrath 

of the Judge is terrific. 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When 

he speaks in his anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and the mountains 

leap like the roe-buck. 
Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children? This 

awful avenger. 
Ah! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not 

in the earthquake, 
Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the 

whispering breeezs. 
Love is the root of creation; God's essence; 

worlds without number 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 165 

Lie in his bosom like children; he made them 

for this purpose only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed 

forth his spirit 
Into the slumbering dust, and upright stand- 
ing, it laid its 
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a 

flame out of heaven. 
Quench, O quench not that flame ! It is the 

breath of your being. 
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father 

nor mother 
Loved you, as God has loved you ; for it was 

that you may be happy 
Gave he his only son. When he bowed down 

his head in the death-hour 
Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice 

then was completed. 
Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the 

temple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from 

their sepulchers rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears 

of each other 
Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to crea- 
tion's enigma, — Atonement! 
Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for 

Love is Atonement. 



166 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the 

merciful Father; 
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from 

fear, but affection ; 
Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that 

loveth is willing ; 
Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, 

and Love only. 
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest 

thou likewise thy brethren; 
One is the sun in Heaven, and one, only one 

is Love also. 
Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp 

on his forehead? 
Readest thou not in his face thine origin? Is 

he not sailing 
Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is 

he not guided 
By the same stars that guide thee? Why 

shouldst thou hate then thy brother? 
Hateth he thee, forgive! For 'tis sweet to 

stammer one letter 
Of the Eternal's language; — on earth it is 

called Forgiveness! 
Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the 

crown of thorns round his temples? 
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his mur- 
derers? Say, dost thou know him? 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 167 

Ah ! thou confessest this name, so follow like- 
wise his example, 
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a vail 

over his failings, 
Guide the erring aright; for the good, the 

heavenly shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it 

back to its mother. 
This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits 

that we know it. 
Love is the creature's welfare, with God; but 

Love among mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, 

and stands waiting, 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears 

on his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recom- 
pense, — Hope, the befriending, 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up 

to heaven, and faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the 

grave, and beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a 

sweet play of shadows! 
Races, better than we, have leaned on her 

wavering promise, 
Having naught else beside Hope. Then praise 

we our Father in Heaven, 



168 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Him, who has given us more ; for to us has 

Hope been illumined, 
Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she 

is living assurance. 
Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the 

eye of affection, 
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves 

their visions in marble. 
Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance 

shines like the Prophet's, 
For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on 

its stable foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the 

New Jerusalem sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors 

descending. 
There enraptured she wanders, and looks at 

the figures majestic, 
Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of 

them all is her homestead. 
Therefore love and believe ; for works will fol- 
low spontaneous 
Even as day does the sun; the Right from the 

Good is an offspring, 
Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works 

are no more than 
Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the 

animate spring-tide. 



'^'■paVWZ 




Then sleep we side by side."— Page 195. 

Longfellow's Poems. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 169 

Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand 

and bear witness 
Not what they seemed, — but what they were 

only. Blessed is he who 
Hears their confession secure ; they are mute 

upon earth until death's hand 
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, 

does Death e'er alarm you? 
Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is 

he, and is only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips 

that are fading 
Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in 

the arms of affection. 
Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the 

face of its father. 
Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see 

dimly his pinions, 
Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon 

them ! I fear not before him. 
Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. 

On his bosom 
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and 

face to face standing 
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by 

vapors ; 
Look on the light of the ages I loved, the 

spirits majestic, 



170 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne 

all transfigured, 
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and 

are singing an anthem, 
Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language 

spoken by angels. 
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he 

one day shall gather, 
Never forgets he the weary; — then welcome, 

ye loved ones, hereafter! 
Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, for- 
get not the promise. 
Wander from holiness onward to holiness; 

earth shall ye heed not; 
Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have 

pledged you to heaven. 
God of the Universe, hear me ! thou fountain 

of Love everlasting. 
Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up 

my prayer to thy heaven ! 
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one 

spirit of all these. 
Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved 

them all like a father. 
May they bear witness for me, that I taught 

them the way of salvation. 
Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word ; again 

may they know me. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 171 

Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy 

face may I place them, 
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and 

exclaiming with gladness. 
Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom 

thou hast given me!" 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at 
the beck of the old man 

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round 
the altar's enclosure. 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the con- 
secration, and softly 

With him the children read ; at the close, with 
tremulous accents, 

Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction 
upon them. 

Now should have ended his task for the day; 
the following Sunday 

Was for the young appointed to eat of the 
Lord's holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the 
Teacher silent and laid his 

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks up- 
ward ; while thoughts high and holy 

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his 
eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. 



172 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. ^^ 

**On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I 

shall rest in the grave-yard ! 
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken 

untimely, 
Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? 

the hour is accomplished. 
Warm is the heart: — I will so! for to-day grows 

the harvest of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now; for what 

failing therein is 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the 

reverend father 
Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new- 
come in heaven, 
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of 

Atonement? 
What it denote th, that know ye full well, I 

have told it you often. 
Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atone- 
ment a token, 
'Stablished between earth and heaven. Man 

by his sins and transgressions 
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 

'Twas in the beginning 
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it 

hangs its crown o'er the 
Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in 

the Heart the Atonement. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 173 

Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite like- 
wise. 
See ! behind me, as far as the old man remem- 
bers, and forw'ard, 
Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her 

wearied pinions, 
Sin and Atonement incessant go through the 

lifetime of mortals. 
Brought forth is sin full-grown ; but Atonement 

sleeps in our bosoms 
Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven 

and of angels 
Cannot wake to sensation ; is like the tones in 

the harp's strings, 
Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the 

deliverer's finger. 
Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the 

Prince of Atonement, 
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and he stands 

now with eyes all resplendent. 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles 

with Sin and o'ercomes her. 
Downward to earth he came and transfigured 

thence reascended, 
Not from the heart in likewise, for there he 

still lives in the Spirit, 
Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time 

is, is Atonement. 



174 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Therefore with reverence receive this day her 

visible token. 
Tokens are dead if the things do not live. The 

light everlasting 
Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the 

eye that has vision. 
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart 

that is hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention 

alone of amendment. 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly 

things, and removes all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with 

his arms wide extended. 
Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that 

is tried, and whose gold flows 
Purified forth from the flames; in a word, 

mankind by Atonement 
Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh* 

Atonement's wine cup. 
But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with 

hate in his bosom, 
Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of 

Christ's blessed body, 
And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he 

eateth and drinketh 
Death and doom ! And from this, preserve us, 

thou heavenly Father! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 175 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread 

of Atonement?" 
Thus with emotion he asked, and together an- 
swered the children 
Yes! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read 

he the due supplications, 
Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed 

the organ and anthem ; 
O ! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our 

transgressions, 
Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have 

mercy upon us ! 
Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heav- 
enly pearls on his eyelids. 
Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt 

round the mystical symbols. 
O ! then seemed it to me, as if God with the 

broad eye of mid-day. 
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the 

trees in the churchyard 
Bowed down their summits of green, and the 

grass on the graves 'gan to shiver. 
But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) 

there ran a 
Tremor of holy rapture along through their 

icy-cold members. 
Decked like an altar before them, there stood 

the green earth, and above it 



176 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



Heaven opened itself, as of old before 
Stephen; there saw they 



Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right 
hand the Redeemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harp- 
strings, and angels from gold clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with 
their pinions of purple. 

Closed, was the Teacher's task, and with 
heaven in their hearts and their faces 

Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, 
weeping full sorely. 

Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all 
of them pressed he 

Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, 
his hands full of blessings, 

Now on the holy breast, and now on the inno- 
cent tresses. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



12 Longfellow 177 



[The following poems, with one exception, 
were written at sea, in the latter part of Octo- 
ber. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's 
death. Since that event, the poem addressed 
to him is no longer appropriate. I have de- 
cided, however, to let it remain as it was writ- 
ten, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a 
great and good man. ] 



178 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And the children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

179 



180 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes oii Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begun. 
Each evening sees it close; 

Something attempted, something done. 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 181 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 



182 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove. 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Diana's kiss; unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone. 

To seek the elected one. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 183 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep. 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 
O, drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown. 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, as if with unseen wings, 
A breath from heaven had touched its strings; 
And whispers, in its song, 
*' Where hast thou stayed so long?" 



184 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

Awake! Away that dream, — away! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 
I bathe mine eyes and see; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 185 

And wander through the world once more, 
A youth so light and free. 

Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair,— 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 

Pale grows the evening-red ; 
And when the dark lock I behold, 

I wish that I were dead. 



ISB LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. — Spanish 
Proverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear; 

The darting swallows soar and sing, 
And from the stately elms I hear 

The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows. 
It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where waiting till the west wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath the eaves : — 
There are no birds in last year's nest! 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fullness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 187 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime. 
For O ! it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest! 



188 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering 

Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and drear}^ 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 189 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's- Acre! It is just; 

In consecrates each grave within its walls, 
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's- Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they had garnered in their 
hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's 
blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume 
With that of flowers, which never bloomed 
on earth. 



190 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up 
the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; 
This is the field and Acre of our God. 

This is the place, where human harvests 
grow! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 191 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 

In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy stream. 



192 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because, thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear. 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart! 

'Tis for this, thou Silent River! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver. 

Take this idle song from me. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 193 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen. 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart. 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart. 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

13 Longfellow 



194 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude. 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press, 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show, 
How bitter are the drops of woe. 
With which its brim may overflow. 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight. 
To see his foeman's face. 

18 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 195 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care. 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips of misery. 
Longing, and yet afraid to die. 

Patient, though sorely tried! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief. 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, — 
Then sleep we side by side. 



196 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance. 
On the river's broad expanse! 

Deep and still, that gliding strean?. 
Beautiful to thee must seem. 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 197 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Seest the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar? 

O, thou child of many prayers ! ' 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares! 
Care and age come unawares! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossom many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snow 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 



198 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth, 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds, that cannot heal. 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 199 



EXCFLSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

*'Try not the Pass!" the old man said; 
**Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied 
Excelsior ! 



200 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

**0 stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

** Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! * * 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior 1 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air 
Excelsior ! 

A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
Half -buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star. 
Excelsior ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 201 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits; 

He hears the crowd; — he hears a breath 

Say, **It is Christ of Nazareth!" 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

IrjffoVf iXirjaSv fix ! 

The thronging multitudes increase; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd. 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud; 
Until they say, **He calleth thee!'* 

Qdpaei, iyeipau., 0w^et <re/ 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, *'What wilt thou at my hands?'* 
And he replies, ' ' O give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight. * ' 
And Jesus answers, "t vaye 

*H irlffTts ffov <r4ffUKi ce / 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery ; 



202 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

'IrjcroO, Hyirjadv fxe / 
Gapcet, eyeipai, inraye ! 
'H vlffTis <7ov (T^<x(j}Ki ai ! 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



203 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

The noble horse, 
That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils 
Neighed courage to his rider, and brake through 
Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord 
Safe to triumphant victory, old or wounded, 
Was set at liberty and freed from service. 
The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew 
Marble, hewed for the Temple of the Gods, 
The great work ended, were dismissed and fed 
At the public cost ; nay, faithful dogs have found 
Their sepulchres ; but man, to man more cruel. 
Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave. 

Massinger. 

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

"Servant of God! well done!" 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold ; 

At times they seem to me. 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half -battles for the free. 
205 



206 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might, 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, *' Write!" 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale, 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 207 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep. 

He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his 
cheeks. 

They held him by the hand! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 



208 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of 
steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their 
flight. 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caff re huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyaena scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the 
reeds 

Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dreams. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues. 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 209 

That he started in his sleep and smiled 
At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 

Nor the burning heat of day ; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep* 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

Had broken and thrown away ! 



14 Longfellow 



210 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kennawa's side, 
In valleys green and cool ; 

And all her hope and all her pride 
Are in the village school. 

Her sotil, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes! 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains aside, 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 
When all men shall be free; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 211 

And musical, as silver bells, 
Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord 

In decent poverty. 
She makes her life one swee^ record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich and gave up all, 

To break the iron bands 
Of those who waited in her hall, 

And labored in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped. 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



212 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms 
shine, 
In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine. 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous 
vine 
Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass, 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 
Great scars deformed his face ; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 213 

On his forehead he bore the brand of 

shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 
Were the livery of disgrace. 

All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty! 

On him alone was the doom of pain. 

From the morning of his birth; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain. 
And struck him to the earth ! 



214 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear. 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen. 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 215 

And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? 



216 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains 
Half-buried in the sands, 

Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 
Deeper than plummet lies, 

Float ships, with all their crews, 
No more to sink or rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms. 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs, 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves; 

They gleam from the abyss; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

*'We are the Witnesses!" 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives; 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 217 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 

In deserts makes its prey ; 
Murders, that with affright 

Scare schoolboys from their play! 

All evil thoughts and deeds; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide! 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

"We are the Witnesses!" 



218 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail ; 

He waited for the rising moon, 
And for the evening gale. 

Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, *'My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides. 

And the rising of the moon." 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 219' 

Before them, with her face upraised, 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were, like a falcon's, gray. 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

No garment she wore save a kirtle gay, 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint, 
As light in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

**The soil is barren, — the farm is old;** 
The thoughtful Planter said ; 

Then looked upon the Slaver's gold. 
And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains; 
For he knew whose passions gave her life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 
He took the glittering gold ! 



220 LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 

Then pale as death grew the maiden's 
cheek, 
Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

Held her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land! 



LONGFELLOW'S POEMS. 221 



THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 

The lion in his path, — when poor, and blind, 

He saw the blessed light of heaven no more. 
Shorn of his noble strength and forced to 
grind 

In prison, and at last led forth to be 

A pander to Philistine revelr}'-, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

Destroyed himself, and with him those who 
made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land. 
Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of 
steel. 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, 
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

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